you know sometimes you just go through the motions right like its 7pm and youre making dinner and its just… automatic. i used to hate cooking but now its like this weird comfort thing. today i made daal makhani. (grandpa’s favorite, obviously). for one. just me. usually the kitchen would be a war zone right now someone yelling for another roti someone else complaining about the spices my grandma (bless her heart) just humming along over the clatter. but tonight it was just the sizzle of the tadka. and the hum of the fridge. it hit me when i was chopping the onions. not the tears from the onions (i swear im immune now) but like a wave of… quiet. i remember him sitting at the counter (always the counter) telling me stories about when he was a kid. and how he’d sneak sweets from the neighbor’s house. he’d watch me. just watch. a little smile. even when i messed up the roti and it looked like a map of a very lumpy country. he’d just nod. ‘acha beta, next time’ he’d say. always next time. but now there isn’t a next time for that. for him. i plated it. just one bowl. small. i remember him saying 'don’t skimp on the butter' and i put extra (a LOT extra) just because. the apartment feels so big without him. so empty. its like the walls are echoing. i called my mom earlier and she was like 'are you eating enough? are you studying? your exams are soon, don’t get distracted.' and i just said 'yeah mom, im fine' but the words felt hollow even to me. i just wanted to scream 'no im not fine! im making daal for ONE. and its his favorite. and hes GONE.' but i didnt. i cant even focus on my reading for tomorrow. its some dense sociology theory about post-colonial identity and all i can think about is how my identity feels kinda fractured right now. like its split between the girl who just wants to sit on the floor and cry and the grad student who has to write a 10-page paper by friday. its 2am now. i think. (my phone is at 10%). the daal is cold. i havent even taken a bite. just sat here staring at it. does anyone else feel like they’re just… floating? like youre not really here or there. just… between? i thought moving out would be this big moment of freedom. and it was. for a bit. but now its just… quiet. too quiet. i miss the chaos. i miss the yelling. i miss him. sometimes i wonder if im doing it all wrong. like i should have stayed longer. should have listened more. should have asked him to teach me how to make his special chai one last time. but i didnt. and now its too late. and the daal is cold. and im just here. alone. with this stupid textbook sitting next to me like a judgment. and the silence. god, the silence.